


living like we're renegades

by writingoutoftime



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 09:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14787845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingoutoftime/pseuds/writingoutoftime
Summary: Let him be okay let him be okay, Ghezen, please, let him be okay.or: in which Jesper and Wylan get into trouble and there's a lot of running and some kissing and some explosions





	living like we're renegades

**Author's Note:**

> title is from [renegades](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8j741TUIET0) by x ambassadors, which is about wylan and jesper as far as I'm concerned
> 
>  **warnings:** there are mentions of blood, non-graphic injuries and the symptoms of a concussion. also jesper may or may not be a self-sacrificing idiot.

* * *

WYLAN

They’re walking down Universiteitstraat when it happens. One moment Wylan’s looking up at Jesper, nudging his shoulder, Jesper’s sharp-angled face lit up by a smile, the next something’s _crashing_ into them and sends them plummeting onto the street, cobblestones scraping painfully across Wylan’s skin. There’s a muffled groan right above his left ear and a body moving beside him, knees, elbows, ribs digging into his back.

“Jesper?” His voice is high-pitched, panicked, he’s reaching out blindly, fingers on cobblestones, fingers on skin, wants to ask again: _Jesper, Ghezen, are you okay,_ but the words are ripped from his lips when someone yanks him upward by the collar and then smashes his head back into the road.

An explosion of pain across his skull. Everything’s black. Everything’s white. Everything’s crimson red and burning. He can’t see, can’t hear, can’t _think;_ everything’s blurry and there’s fire licking at the back of his skull, something wet and hot seeping into his hair. He screams.

Distant sounds, the world spiralling around him, voices, maybe — or shouts? Then the sharp bang of gunshots and suddenly he’s wrenched back on his feet, stumbles, slams into a wall, grasps the bricks unconsciously to keep himself upright.

The noises flood back to him all at once: too loud, too much, hands on his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin, and he winces.

“Wylan,” someone says, _“Wylan,_ ” his damn name over and over and it takes him a couple of seconds to realise: it’s Jesper.

He blinks. There are black spots in his vision and the edges are strangely jagged, but he manages to concentrate on Jesper’s face, grey eyes wide with _something,_ and Wylan’s brain hurts too much to work out if it’s concern or maybe something else. Excitement? Thrill? He knows how Jesper comes alive in dangerous, live-threatening situations like no one else, how badly his bones are aching for battle, and he tells himself it’s the triumphant shout of Jesper’s brain and body falling into perfect sync because there’s finally something to _do._ Tells himself it’s that because he doesn’t want to see Jesper’s eyes widened in terror.

“Wylan,” Jesper says, shaking him just a little, and Wylan’s insides squirm and knot in protest. “They’ll be back on their feet in like a second, we have to _go_.”

Sure enough, there’s scuffling behind them, and when Wylan looks over Jesper’s shoulder he sees two bodies sprawled across the street, dressed in the orange fabric of the Madman, the hooked beaks of their masks all bent and ruined.

It looks so wrong and out of place here, in the quiet, peaceful streets of the University District, that Wylan’s mind has trouble wrapping itself around the sight. The Komedie brute costumes are for East Stave, borrowed identities for people who want to forget about their respectable lives and indulge in twisted, shameless sins for the night, not for Universiteitstraat in broad daylight with students laughing in groups and assistants hurrying back and forth with stacks of books and professors walking absent-mindedly, studying papers with furrowed brows.

This is a scene for the Barrel, the gunshots, the bodies, the blood on the cobblestones. Streets fights shouldn’t happen on Universiteitstraat, Ghezen, they shouldn’t happen to _him_ on Universiteitstraat, he’s tired of always fighting for his life.

“Wylan.” Jesper’s voice is low and urgent. “Look at me.”

Wylan startles, his eyes lock on Jesper’s, his skull throbs. He touches a hand to the back of his head and it comes away red. He stares at the blood, dazed, until Jesper shakes him again.

“Come on.” He grabs Wylan’s arm and pulls him along, down the street and then a sharp turn into a narrow alley, printing shops and second-hand bookstores lining up left and right, and Wylan tries very hard to keep up with Jesper’s pace, prays he doesn’t stumble, prays he doesn’t throw up.

His mind is racing. _What it Ghezen’s name just happened?_

They were walking back home from Boeksplein where Jesper searched for some books he needed for the classes he’d taken up at University again, while Wylan hunted down the principal to discuss the project he and Jesper decided to fund, a project that will help students from families with low income with their tuition fees. They were just walking back home, laughing, Jesper nudging Wylan’s nose with one of the books, Wylan suggesting they could get waffles on the way, leaning into Jesper’s shoulder.

Then, out of nowhere, two figures tackling them to the ground.

“Saints, run faster,” Jesper wheezes and tugs at Wylan’s hand. They skid around a corner and almost crash into a woman in a long blue dress who’s arranging flowers on the window sill of her small store. She shrieks and trips over a bucket filled with soil.

“I’m sorry, madam,” Jesper splutters over his shoulder, dragging Wylan with him when he races past, “but things are about to get uncomfortable here. I’d suggest you get inside and lock the door.”

“You think,” Wylan gasps, struggling to get the words out of his mouth, “you think they’re following us?”

“Can’t say my guns did much to stop them.”

Wylan’s blood runs cold. If there’s one unshakable truth about their messy and unpredictable lives, it’s that Jesper Fahey never misses a shot.

Until now, apparently.

Well, shit.

“You know them?” Wylan’s head spins and he stumbles into Jesper’s back, his chin hitting Jesper’s shoulder hard. An arm around his waist keeps him from falling. Jesper’s face, up close, is sharp angles and concentration and a smudge of blood on his cheek that Wylan didn’t notice before.

“Wish I did.” Jesper sounds breathless, their mad escape is slowly catching up on both of them as they turn into another backstreet. “But the thing is, the people who’d love to see us dead line up all the way back to Ravka. Take a pick.”

Footsteps echoing from cobblestones. Too loud, too close. Shouts in a language Wylan doesn’t understand.

Jesper swears. Wylan’s hand flies to his satchel and he wants to hit himself for not thinking about this sooner, _damn it, Van Eck, you stupid waffle,_ searching for the vial he knows he’s got in there somewhere, trembling fingers finally closing around glass.

“On the count of three you dive for cover, okay?” he yells, tries to forget about the dizziness in his brain, the nausea rising in his stomach. Jesper squeezes his hand. Wylan shakes the vial fast, closes his eyes, listens to the footsteps, counts the seconds. He’s got one chance.

“One . . . two . . . THREE!”

He sends the vial skyrocketing over his shoulder with an angry shout, there’s a hard yank on his forearm and he gets smashed into a doorway, pain cracking through his skull for the second time today. Jesper pushes him up against the wooden door with his body, arms thrown over his head to protect himself, and then the alley turns into hell.

Flames licking over buildings, bricks falling like deadly raindrops, cracks tearing like open wounds through the cobblestones.

“All the tortured Saints, Wy.” The detonation pushes them even closer together, Jesper’s forehead pressing into Wylan’s. “You’ve been carrying that stuff in _your fucking pocket the whole time?”_

“’S not dangerous when you don’t trigger the reaction,” Wylan mumbles. The words come out slow, and wrong. His knees are weak, Jesper’s body is the only thing keeping him on his feet. He lifts the blood-smeared hand he’d used to throw the vial. “Iron. Works like hell.”

“Literally.” Jesper breathes and sags against Wylan for a second. “You’re bloody brilliant.”

“Literally.” Wylan wants to smile, but everything hurts too much.

Jesper straightens again and peers out into the street. He whistles. “This looks like we’ve broken out of the Ice Court all over again.” He takes a cautious step and Wylan curls a hand into the front of his jacket to keep himself steady. Jesper’s fingers close around his wrist. They leave the doorway together, Jesper’s free hand on his gun.

 _It’s not like the Ice Court,_ Wylan thinks, _it’s Hellgate._ _Black and burned and reeking of death._

Suddenly, tears are threatening to spill over, and he closes his eyes. This is the University District, for Ghezen’s sake, it’s supposed to be peaceful and quiet and _safe,_ and he’d turned it into a crime scene.

“Looks like one of ‘em is down,” Jesper whispers, nodding to a bent, broken creature in a coat that’s so thoroughly burned it’s hard to tell it has been orange once. Wylan wishes he hadn’t looked at it. There’s a sharp jap of pain that has nothing to do with his injuries. He feels sick.

“Wylan,” says Jesper. “Breathe.”

Wylan can’t. Something wet and ugly has lodged itself in his throat and he’s suffocating. He pushes Jesper away, crouches against the wall, throws up. Again, and again, his insides turning into knots. He smears soot all over himself, retching and gasping for air.

A hand on his shoulder, gentle, and he wants to scream.

 _“Wylan.”_ Jesper pulls him into a hug, presses Wylan’s face into the crook of his shoulder, holds him upright, holds him close. “I want to kiss you,” he whispers, “I want to tell you that things are going to be okay, but there were two of them and one has disappeared and we’re not out of danger.”

“I know,” Wylan sobs, “I know,” and wishes Kaz would be here to tell him to suck it up, these aren’t the first things he’s damaged and the first people he’s killed, so why freak out now?

_You’re a merchant’s son._

Suddenly he hears Kaz’s voice over the rain of a February evening when he and Jesper had invited Inej and Kaz over for dinner and weren’t really surprised when Inej turned up alone, rolled her eyes and told them that Kaz was too busy to attend. It was nice with just the three of them, though, Inej tucked between them on the table as they traded cake and laughter and stories.

Then, two hours into the night, Kaz turned up at the doorstep, impeccably dressed, crow cane polished, eyebrow raised. He didn’t say a lot, just listened, and sometimes smiled when he thought they weren’t looking. At some point, Wylan started complaining about the Council members who refused to take him seriously because he was so much younger than them, and Kaz looked at him, just looked, for a long time. His words, when he finally spoke, were quiet but nonetheless sharp.

_You’re a merchant’s son, Wylan van Eck. But you’ve also survived the Barrel. Don’t let anyone forget that._

He bites back another sob. Takes a breath. Looks up at Jesper. “Okay. Okay. Let’s go.”

Jesper squeezes his hand and they dive deeper into the maze of backstreets and narrow alleyways, passing students who are lingering in small groups, sharing bottles and trying to drink up some courage before their exams. All of them are gaping when they run past. Covered in blood and soot and tiny bits of debris, Wylan thinks, they must be quite a sight. His knees are still weak, but he grits his teeth and marches on.

He thinks of the woman in the blue dress and hopes she’d been smart enough to go inside. She must’ve heard the explosion. Did she send for the _stadwatch?_ Maybe it would be for the best. Someone needs to clean up the mess, after all.

“Did you, did you check on them?” Wylan pants when they break out onto the broad Geneeskundestraat where, as far as he knows, the faculty of medicine resides. “The one I killed, I mean.”

Jesper tugs him into the direction of Kliniekbridge to cross the canal. He looks at Wylan and nods. “A woman. Ridiculously tall. Black hair. Golden eyes.”

Wylan is confused. _“Shu?_ Why are the Shu trying to kill us?”

Jesper shrugs. “They haven’t exactly sent a note.”

They cross the bridge just as Wylan fights back another wave of nausea. A medical student calls after them and offers to patch them up. Jesper declines with a wave of his hand. “We’re too visible,” he mutters, “we need to get out of sight.”

A thought is nagging at the back of Wylan’s brain but he’s too exhausted and dizzy to pay attention. He points down the street.

“The morgue of the medical faculty is in that direction,” he says. “Nice back entrance. Usually deserted around this time in the afternoon. They’ve only got morning classes there.”

“You know, Wy, for someone who doesn’t even attend university you know an awful lot about the District.” Jesper gives him a sideways look. “You wanna hide out between the corpses?”

“I was more thinking of using the long black coats the students usually wear during autopsies,” Wylan shoots back, “but you can cuddle with corpses as you like.”

Talking is easier than admitting that his headache is getting worse, he’s close to throwing up again and black spots have started to creep across his vision. He clings to Jesper’s hand and keeps going.

They’re only one corner away from the backdoor of the morgue when Jesper suddenly skids to a halt.

“What?” Wylan whispers.

Jesper puts a finger on his lips and shakes his head. “They’re here.”

Wylan peeks around the corner. A black-clad figure leans against the entrance of the morgue. Underneath the black coat there’s a flash of the tell-tale orange of the Madman costume.

_What in Ghezen’s fucking name—_

Jesper yanks him back and they hurry down the street as fast and silent as possible. Around the corner, they break into a run again.

“This isn’t possible,” Wylan gasps, “they couldn’t have tracked us so damn fast, it’s almost like they’ve smelled . . .” He trails off. Ice shoots through his veins like poison. Puzzle pieces fall into place.

“Jesper—”

He doesn’t get enough air to talk. His mind is a thunderstorm. He thinks back to the letter on his desk two weeks ago, a letter Jesper didn’t sort like the rest. He looked at it with slight disgust instead, and then sighed. Wylan grinned and nudged his shoulder.

“Did your boyfriend send you another letter about his undying burning passion for you?”

Jesper growled. “Don’t call him that. You’ll only encourage him. But yeah, the letter’s from Kuwei.”

When the first letter arrived, Wylan had been jealous. He’d been surprised at himself, the sudden, sharp twinge in his heart, the satisfying image of smashing Kuwei’s head into the keys of a piano. But when he’d witnessed Jesper’s shocked reaction at Kuwei’s nerve to actually send him a _love letter,_ and an . . . explicit one, at that, he’d discovered that teasing Jesper about it was far more fun than being jealous.

“What did he send this time? A poem about the grey and raw beauty of your eyes?”

Jesper tapped a finger against his chin thoughtfully. “They’ve been testing another antidote for _parem,_ ” he said slowly. “Kuwei writes that it looks very promising this time.”

Wylan was surprised by his solemn tone. “But that’s — that’s good news, right?”

Jesper closed his eyes. “It would be.” A pause. “If the Shu hadn’t found out about what’s going on in Ravka. Now the Grisha in Shu-Han are disappearing faster than ever.”

The guilt in his voice made Wylan’s heart ache for him. He knew that Jesper still struggled sometimes with being Grisha. But most of all he struggled with the fact how other Grisha suffered at the hands of people who didn’t want — didn’t even _try_ — to understand their powers. People he’d managed to hide from for most of his life.

“Wylan?” Jesper’s voice snaps him back into the present. They’re tucked into a small passageway between two buildings. Jesper’s face is tense and worried.

“The Shu,” Wylan bites out. He’s glad Jesper’s still holding his hand. He isn’t sure he’d be standing otherwise. “Remember the winged monsters they sent to hunt Grisha? Sure, we haven’t seen them in a while and there aren’t many Grisha left in Ketterdam now, but what if they’ve run out of options? What if, with everything going on with Kuwei and the antidote in Ravka, the Shu got nervous? What if they’ve never given up on their weapons?” He watches the realisation dawn in Jesper’s eyes.

“No wings this time,” he whispers. “Less conspicuous.”

“Still mostly immune to bullets,” Wylan adds. “Still strong. Still fast. Still able to smell Grisha.”

Jesper’s hand tightens around his for a second. Then—

“Okay,” he says. Takes a breath. “We’ll split up.”

Wylan’s body goes cold. “No.”

“Listen to me—”

“No, Jesper, fucking hell, are you _mad?”_ Wylan yanks his hand free and regrets it the instant his legs decide they don’t want to support his body weight any longer. He fumbles until he can steady himself against the wall in his back.

“It’s the only way, Wylan.” Jesper holds his hands up but doesn’t come closer, and Wylan, whose knees are shaking by now, isn’t sure if he’d punch him if he did. “You’re hurt. You can’t run for very much longer. The only chance you got is when I distract them. Lead them away. They won’t follow you.” Wylan shakes his head frantically with every word that leaves Jesper’s mouth, but it only makes him feel nauseous again and he stops. “You can disappear easily in the student crowd. Ge back home. Let Kaz know what happened.”

“Jesper—”

Now, Jesper takes a step towards him.

“I’ll tire them out,” he says, voice low. “This is my city. I know the safe houses to hide out if necessary. I know where to go. I’ll come back to you once I’ve gotten rid of them. Nina’s proved that you can kill them with bullets if you just get close enough.”

Wylan presses his back against the wall, a brick digging into his shoulder blade. The pain keeps him focused. “Don’t,” he whispers. Hates how scared and desperate he sounds. “Jesper, please. Don’t leave me.”

Another step and Jesper’s right up in his space again. “They’re coming for Grisha, Wy. They’re coming for _me._ ” The tremble in his voice leaves Wylan raw and open. “I’m not going to let them hurt you again, you hear me? They _won’t.”_

Wylan leans in until his forehead touches Jesper’s. Ignores the pain in his head and the knots in his stomach. Closes his eyes. “Don’t do this.”

“Promise you’re not going to follow me, Wy.” Jesper’s breath on his face, Jesper’s hand on his chest, his neck. “Promise.”

He kisses Wylan, hard and desperate, buries his hands in Wylan’s hair where the blood dried to draw him closer, pours all his thoughts and promises and plans and sheer panic into the kiss, and Wylan’s whole body — _melts._ He cups Jesper’s face and tells himself to just not let go anymore, to keep him here, to keep him safe, thinks, _stay stay stay._

Thinks, _I love you I love you I love you._

Jesper breaks the kiss first, his lips lingering for another short, bittersweet moment. When he steps back, Wylan stumbles.

“Easy there.” Jesper steadies him, a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t pass out on me, merchling. Get away as fast as you can.” A finger on his cheek. Too gentle. It will break him. “Take care of your pretty face.”

Wylan leans back against the wall. He won’t crumble as soon as Jesper releases him, he _won’t._ He refuses. And his stupid body better damn listens.

Jesper draws his guns. “No mourners.”

Wylan inhales shakily. “No funerals.”

One last look.

“Jesper?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be a hero.”

Jesper grins. “I’m not a hero.” He clicks bullets into both chambers of his guns. “I’m a criminal.”

Then he disappears around the corner and out of Wylan’s sight.

 

JESPER

Jesper is _alive._ He’s so damn alive he wants to scream, his body humming with adrenaline and the thoughts spilling from his brain in clear, sharp waves, pointing out routes and covers and obstacles and shortcuts, telling him to go faster, just a little faster, _c’mon, Fahey, just one more corner, get GOING,_ one more corner between him and Wylan and the Shu-faced monster.

Jesper is also angry. Oh, Jesper is so angry. The sharp noise of Wylan’s head hitting cobblestones echoes in his mind, and he tastes revenge on his tongue like copper and grabs his guns so hard that his knuckles turn white because they won’t hurt Wylan again they won’t hurt Wylan again they _won’t_ —

He whirls down Filosofieweg and then ducks sideways into another narrow alleyway that he knows will lead him down to Commercieelstraat and the Geldcanal. He needs to leave the University District, _get them away from Wylan, get them away,_ needs to cut across the Financial District and then dive into the Barrel.

 _My city,_ he’d said. Meet them on home ground.

His heart is hammering like a stampede in his chest and he can feel _everything:_ the muscles curling around his bones, the blood pumping in his veins, the oxygen burning in his lungs; he’s controlling everything and he’s shaking and running and thinking of the clear-blue eyes he’s left behind, and how Wylan’s voice broke when he whispered, _please, don’t leave me._

There’s a bleeding, aching scratch across his heart and it reads: _sorry._

 

WYLAN

Wylan leans against the wall, trying to catch his breath, knees shaking. He wants to scream. He wants to break the whole damn city to dust. He wants to curl into a ball and never get up again.

He throws up, coughing and choking, one hand digging into the bricks of the wall to keep himself from falling over, everything hurts, everything hurts, everything hurts.

He sinks down on his knees. Buries his head in his hands. Squeezes his eyes shut.

He searches, deep down in himself, for one last bit of courage, one last bit of desperation, one last bit of _something._ He’s terrified that if he’ll come up empty, he won’t be able to get up again.

_Are you a coward, Wylan van Eck?_

_Are you a scared kid hiding away in the corner?_

Somewhere, far away, there’s a voice. Low. Dark. Raspy. Kaz’s voice.

_You’re a merchant’s son, Wylan van Eck. But you’ve also survived the Barrel. Don’t let anyone forget that._

Wylan, slowly, opens his eyes.

 

JESPER

They’re waiting just around the corner of Éénoogstraat. Black robe. Orange costume shining through at the bottom. Unmoving. Lifeless. Inhuman.

Jesper growls. _Winged monster. Well, without the wings this time. Must’ve left them at home._

He almost sighs with relief. Wylan was right. They’ve found him. They’re hunting Grisha.

 _He’s safe._ It’s all that counts. _Wylan’s safe._

Jesper raises his guns. Tilts his head. Musters up a lazy grin, even though all the wants is to walk up to the creature and snap their damn neck.

Bones wrapped into Grisha steel. He tastes copper on his tongue again, tastes guilt, tastes pain.

 _Fabrikators did this,_ he thinks. _Trapped so deeply in the claws of_ parem _that you outlived them all._

He breathes. _People like me did this._

He closes his eyes. Concentrates. The world around him starts humming. The silver coins in his pockets, every single one with another clinking voice. The bullets in the chambers of his guns, clear, focused, determined. The pipes twisting through the houses left and right. If he listens hard enough, he can even make out a faint echo of the metal wrapped into the bone structure of the monster.

Metal sings _everywhere._

Jesper opens his eyes again. This time, he smiles for real.

“You should’ve brought your wings with you.” His voice is low, dangerous. Kaz would be proud. “And you shouldn’t have made me angry.”

He takes a step forward, a provocation. Raises an eyebrow. “I’m bored,” he says. “C’mon, little soldier. Two can play this game.”

 

WYLAN

Breaking into the chemistry faculty is ridiculously easy. Wylan leans his head against the doorframe for a second to catch his breath. He’s still sick. His head still hurts like hell. He’s trembling like a damn leaf. But he’s got a plan now. And somehow, that knowledge keeps him standing on his feet.

He doesn’t pause to admire the laboratories, the shining white surfaces, the framed paintings of famous chemists on the wall. He’s just here for the huge collection of chemicals. It’s never been something he’d liked to do, chemistry. Just something he was good at, something he understood. A useful skill.

When he steps back onto the street, he fights another wave of nausea.

He doesn’t stop to think where to go. Really, there’s just one direction Jesper would’ve taken them. Straight back to the Barrel.

He breaks into a run.

_Don’t let anyone forget who you are._

 

JESPER

Pain flares up in his shoulder like wildfire and Jesper bites back a scream. He’s hit the cobblestones hard, this time, and he’s dizzy when he gets back up to his feet. His left arm is starting to numb, the gun sliding from his non-responding fingers. He kicks it away quickly, out of reach of the Shu.

 _This crazy weapon really doesn’t need another weapon,_ he thinks, and grabs the remaining gun tighter. The Shu approaches again, carefully. He’s lost his mask at some point, the Madman gone to reveal a surprisingly young, soft face. It threw Jesper off.

 _A boy,_ he thought, _just a boy._ He almost contemplated to go easy on him, for a second.

Well, until the boy had sent him flying into the wall with full force, cracking two ribs in the process. Jesper can feel them burning inside him now, every time he takes a breath pain cracks through his body like a lightning bolt.

He knows he won’t be able to dance around like this for much longer. He’s a sharp shooter, for Saints’ sake, not a fist fighter.

_But Wylan’s safe._

He raises the gun. Two bullets left. He directed the path of the rest, aimed at the only vulnerable spot he knew of this guy, but he never managed to hit the eyes. The boy was too fast.

 _This isn’t normal,_ he thinks, and then shakes his head. _Good one, Fahey. You’re fighting against a boy who’s got metal literally_ forged into his body _who wants to kill you because you have awesome powers with which you could theoretically forge metal_ literally into someone’s body. _What even is your life?_

The boy swooshes closer and Jesper reaches out for the bullet, calls for its voice, and fires. A split second and the boy’s out of the way. Jesper swears and only barely manages to duck before he’s slammed into the wall again.

One bullet left.

_I guess this is your lucky shot._

He limps a couple steps backwards, braces himself up against the wall. He’ll meet that monster standing.

_Wylan’s safe._

He closes his eyes.

And.

Fires.

 

WYLAN

Gunshots, maybe a couple streets over. It could be anything. It could be just another day in the Barrel, where people tend to settle their arguments with knives and bullets rather than words.

It could be Jesper.

He’s running faster than ever before in his life.

 

JESPER

The boy’s still standing. Jesper doesn’t have time to think about it. He reaches out to the only thing he’s got left: desperation.

He calls for all the metal that surrounds him and just _yanks._

 

WYLAN

_Let him be okay let him be okay, Ghezen, please, let him be okay._

 

JESPER

The monster smashes into him and they land sprawled out on the floor. The metal beneath his skin is humming.

Jesper stares up at the young, soft face above him. A boy. A child. He might be pretty, in other circumstances. He might grow up to do something great.

“I guess this is the end now.” Jesper smiles up at the boy. His words are slurred. His shoulder didn’t like the impact and he’s bitten his tongue. Blood is filling his mouth. “I have to admit I didn’t want to go out this way. No offence.” The boy’s panicking, he can see it now, golden eyes on fire. He can’t move. Jesper is trapping him. Jesper can’t move either. Everything hurts. He doesn’t care. It’s going to end. It’s going to be over anyway.

Jesper turns his head to whisper into the boy’s ear. “I’ll just make sure you’ll never hunt down another Grisha again.”

He spits out and smiles a blood-stained smile.

 

WYLAN

A huddle of limbs on the cobblestones. Jesper’s guns on the ground.

Wylan’s heart stops.

 

JESPER

Footsteps.

They are too close.

 

WYLAN

He’s running again, he’s shouting, and then the bodies are _moving._

 

JESPER

 _No,_ something whispers inside him, _this is wrong. He was supposed to be safe._

 

WYLAN

“Jesper! Jesper, damn it, move! Jesper! You have to get out of the way! Ghezen, Jesper, _please!”_

 

JESPER

He doesn’t understand. He’s still lying underneath the Shu boy. He still can’t move. Golden eyes are still burning, are still asking, _what are you doing with me?_

Jesper doesn’t know. Everything hurts. He just knows that he’s holding onto something

And there’s Wylan’s voice. And he’s shouting. And Jesper—

 

WYLAN

“Jesper, don’t give up now. _Please._ ”

 

JESPER

—Jesper understands.

He has to let go.

The voices are calling for him and he whispers an answer.

He lets them go, one by one.

And then he _pushes._

 

WYLAN

The Shu is sent flying through the air. Wylan watches him careening down the street. He doesn’t hesitate a second. He launches the vial and throws himself over Jesper, arms over his head. The explosion scorches the tips of his hair.

 

JESPER

“Wylan?”

“Yeah?”

“I really missed your stupid face.”

 

WYLAN

It’s probably not the best moment for kissing.

Well, screw that.

 

JESPER

So much pain.

“I’ve never,” he says, and furrows his brow because the words aren’t really working for him. “I’ve never controlled that much metal at once.”

“Stupid Grisha.” Wylan sounds fond.

Jesper tries not to be distracted by his smile. Thoughts are fluttering unorganised through his head. Some things are important, need to be said out loud. He tries to concentrate.

“Nina,” he whispers. “We have to warn her. About the Shu. She can talk to the other Grisha in the city. And, and Kaz and Inej. They need to know too.”

“Yeah,” Wylan says, cupping his face. “Yeah.”

“Don’t kiss me again. My ribs don’t like it.”

 

WYLAN

Wylan takes Jesper’s hand.

“I told you not to be a hero.”

Jesper winces as he struggles to his feet.

“I wasn’t. I was just stupid.”

“Yeah, sacrificing your life to save me is pretty stupid.” It suddenly hurts, and he can’t joke about it anymore. He squeezes Jesper’s hand. “Don’t do it again.”

“You know I can promise that.”

“You don’t have to. Just try.”

“I told you that you shouldn’t kiss me again.”

Wylan laughs and touches his finger to Jesper’s brow. “Jesper?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go home.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> . . . the amount of times I've used the word "cobblestones" has got to be unhealthy. that said, no cobblestones were harmed in the making of this story.


End file.
